


A Rose With Many Thorns

by Jheselbraum



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A Rose With Many Thorns AU, Abusive Relationships, Bill Cipher Possessing Grunkle Ford, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Fiddauthor eventually, Gen, Grunkle Ford Needs A Hug, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Plant Ford (Plord) AU, Possession, Self-Harm, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jheselbraum/pseuds/Jheselbraum
Summary: Ford was trying his damnedest to defeat Bill. But the demon is slowly taking over his mind and body.





	1. Subconjunctival Hemmoraging

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is my first actual attempt at writing Ford with psychosis! As such, if I make any egregious errors please let me know and I will fix them! I've had the headcanon/theory rattling around for a while (he's canonically had auditory hallucinations before, though whether this was because of Bill or merely exacerbated by him was never mentioned. However, based on his original descriptions of Bill I'd wager he had them before they met as well)(I personally believe he has bipolar disorder/manic depression, which can have a significant overlap with the symptoms of psychosis)(But that's me projecting onto Ford, and I don't have that symptom overlap, so). 
> 
> I want to make it clear that this is NOT an attempt at making Ford 'edgier' or anything like that. The closest I'll come (or hope to come, in any case) is the first few chapters of this fic, in which Bill is deliberately exacerbating Ford's symptoms (because a, he can and b, Ford has been off his meds for over a year at this point) and influencing his hallucinations (and in some cases, creating them). Because he can.
> 
> Mostly, I just want a fic where Ford has these symptoms (regardless of the mental illness that causes them) that's written by someone who's still around in the fandom.
> 
> So. Keep an eye out, please? Leave a review if something's not up to snuff.
> 
> Anyways, the fic's about Ford turning into a plant guy. So. Enjoy.

Ford was getting used to waking up to the smell of blood.

He was getting used to trying his damndest to keep from falling asleep.

 _Good_.

Pale February light peeked through the boarded up windows best it could, far too dim for this time of day. The forecast called for a blizzard in a few days, Ford supposed that accounted for the darkening sky.

 _Maybe I should go get supplies_.

With a trembling hand, Ford wiped the blood from his writing desk ( _really Bill? This is an **antique**_ ), making a face as he bent his wrist the wrong way, causing a jolt of pain to shoot up his arm.

At least he had the good sense to use his _other_ hand to wipe the blood from his _face._

 _Fuck_.

Ford took a deep breath and did inventory.

_Conspicuous bite marks on personal belongings, including Journal 3. Several pages missing, most likely crumpled or torn on the ground. Right eye bleeding. Right hand still healing from injuries caused previously, but no new damage aside from large mystery bruise on the forearm. Jar of invisible ink considerably less full than the last I checked._

…

_I don’t want to know what he wrote._

_…_

_I’m going to look anyways, aren’t I?_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ford drew the curtains and turned on the blacklight, revealing slurs and insults painted all over the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the parlor. Bill was mocking him, _taunting_ him. _Freak. Monster. Puppet._ Ford flicked the light back on and left the room without a word.

What use was there for speech?

Routine had become nonexistent in the past few weeks. Any trace of comfort Ford could find, Bill would _take_. Slowly at first, but then the tendrils grew and spread until there was nothing left, soiling anything and everything Ford held dear. Nothing was left untouched. Nothing was _clean_. Bill had claimed them all for himself.

His favorite truck stop diner. A familiar button up he’d worn since high school. What few friends he’d managed to find in town. Looking at the stars. Writing. Childhood memories.

His body.

His _mind_.

Ford took his index finger and bent it back as far as it would go. Waited _one, two, three,_ and bent it back a little further.

 _Mea culpa. Ego merentur_.

Bill was watching him through the floorboards.

The rings. In the wood.

They weren’t rings, they were eyes they had to be that’s how he _knew_.

_I KNOW LOTS OF THINGS, **SIXER**!_

“Stop.” Ford’s voice was hoarse, like a creaking floorboard, or an iron gate, wailing from rusted hinges.

 _There_. Staring up at Ford. A gleaming yellow eye, with a vertical slit pupil. His own eye gushed more blood at the sight of it.

_Give up, brainiac!_

Another.

 _Give up!_ Anoth— _Give up!_ Anothe— _Give—_ Another— _GIVE. UP—_

_Fuck you, Bill._

“You’re doing this!” Ford screamed, clutching at his scalp, not noticing or caring when the skin tightening over his hand forced a few of the cuts open again. “You’re doing this, I know you are!”

The hallucinations were never this frightening _before_.

_Maybe they’re not hallucinations!_

_Shut up._

“He's messing with your mind, Stanford.” The mantra was shaky, tentative at best, but it was all Ford had. "He’s done it before. You know how to _deal with it.”_ He wrapped his coat close to his body, walking towards the kitchen like a man walking against the wind in a storm.

_Just saying! You stopped taking your meds **long** before **I** showed up!_

_Stop._

_How do you even know I’m **REAL**?_

_Stop._

_Why don’t you follow in ol’ Modoc’s **FOOTSTEPS**! It’ll be **HILARIOUS**!_

“STOP!” Ford’s scream reverberated through the cabin. His hands clamped tight over his ears. “My mind and my body are my _own!_ As long as I’m awake, you can’t _touch me!_ ”

Ford scrambled into the kitchen, as awake as he could be now that his blood was more adrenaline than not, and grabbed the strongest serrated knife he could find.

His hands trembled as he carved out the eyes in the wood, one by one.

“You can’t touch me! You can’t—” The knife stuck fast in the third eye Ford carved. He pulled at it. It wouldn’t budge. “Don’t _touch_ me! I’ll kill you! You have no dominion in this world!”

_Not yet, but for now, I have dominion over **YOU**!_

Ford heard Bill’s laughter before he felt himself going under.

When he came to, the knife was sticking out of his good hand.

“Fu—” Ford couldn’t tell if it was tears or blood or _both_ that trailed down his face. “ _Fuck!_ Fuck you, Bill! You sick bastard!” Ford screamed so loud his throat was raw.

The knife hurt on its way out.

Finding a clean cloth, let alone bandages, was a task in and of itself, without having to worry about a genocidal chaos demon invading your head.

“This won’t stop me,” Ford muttered, by some miracle finding a clean strip of gauze in a drawer in the living room, of all places. “I’ll find your _armadillo_ , Bill, I’ll—”

 _Armadillo_.

_What._

Ford’s heart was pounding in his chest, but his head fogged over and every muscle became so tense he had to _scream_ to relieve the tension.

_I meant to say ‘weakness.’_

_Where did ‘armadillo’ come from?_

The bandage fell loose around Ford’s hand. _Pressure_ , he had to remind himself. _Apply pressure you idiot, or you’ll bleed out_.

_Grab the bandage._

_It happened before, earlier._

_Pull it tight._

_Sea otter, I think._

_Keep putting pressure on it._

_Swapped with burden._

_I control your **mind** , Sixer!_

Ford spared a glance out the living room window.

There was a man, out in the snow, just beyond the porch.

_And soon, I’ll control your **body** , too!_


	2. Thigmotropism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Plant Ford (Plord) is born. Content warnings for: suicidal ideation, self-harm, some gore, depersonalization, dissociation, as well as anything else that's in the tags.

Ford’s heart pounded in his chest, joining the ringing in his ears as his head filled with fog and his chest caved in.

Bill was silent.

“Stanley?” He whispered. Blood seeped through the gauze on his hand. It hurt to move it. “Stan?!” Ford threw the door open anyways, forcing himself to grab his crossbow, wincing as he did so. The figure in the distance was obscured by the trees, and the light reflecting off the snow wasn’t helping. “Show yourself! Stan, is that you?!”

The man didn’t move. If Ford hadn’t known better, he’d have left it at that, chalked the sighting up to the early morning light mixing with his fraying mind, and tightened his resolve to defeat Bill.

But Ford made a mistake.

He took a shaky step forward. Then another.

Then he left the front porch.

Then:

“Well, well, **_well_** _!_ ”

Ford’s face twisted in on itself in a desperate attempt not to show his terror.

The man wasn’t a human at all. His skin was _bark_ , with a large strip missing from his chest. _Likely removed in a fight with some giant animal, judging by the shape of the cuts. Could have been a gremoblin—_

_Quit it with the nerd shit! Focus!_

Brown and withered leaves grew where hair would have on a human. His eyes were hollowed sockets, glowing yellow from Bill’s possession. Ice crystallized on every branch, frosting the edges of the man’s bark, coating his leaves. Though, Ford wasn’t even sure ‘he’ was the correct pronoun.

 _Do dryads have genders? Now’s probably not the **best** time to ask that question_.

_I’ll put a pin in it._

“Bill Cipher,” Ford growled. “So this was your plan? Possess a dryad and fight your way into my house?”

“Ha ha, no if I wanted to do that I would’ve gone for something with a bit more **_MUSCLE_** , and _this,_ ” Bill-in-the-dryad’s-body gestured to himself. “Guy’s gonna freeze to death pretty soon!” The dryad’s face twisted into a manic grin, too wide even for a creature not bound by human limitations, and reached out towards Ford.

Ford fired blindly, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulled the trigger, sending an arrow whizzing past the dryad’s head.

Bill slapped the crossbow out of Ford’s hands, and twisted his left wrist. Ford buckled, knees sinking into the snow and his skin shrieking as the bitter cold cut through his clothes.

“Nah," Bill laughed. "What I'm gonna do to you is _way_ worse!”

“I'll—”

“Shove it up your ugly ass, Fordsy. We know, we know, you'll 'stop me’ or ‘kill me’ but you know what I _think_ , Sixer?” Bill twisted Ford’s arm, eliciting a cry of pain from the man.

Bile bubbled in Ford’s throat. Struggling was pointless, he was running on fumes as is: there was no stopping whatever Bill had planned for him.

“ _I think **denial** was the only thing you were ever good at._” Bill cackled, the force of his laughter cracking the frozen bark on the dryad’s chest. “It’s been a real blast, honest! Watching you struggle was _hilarious_. Cute, even! Like watching a beetle trying to fly out of a pool!” He wrapped his wooden claws around Ford’s throat and _squeezed_.

Hard.

“ **But I’m done playing.** ”

Ford never felt the roots take hold, but he struggled against the vines twisting around his ankles and up his legs nonetheless.

Ford tried to fight, to _scream_ , but only a wilted gurgle escaped his lips. His bones, his skin, his muscles gave way to pine wood (because if course it was _pine_ ) and his organs _burst_ inside him.

Bill just laughed.

It _hurt._ It hurt like nothing Ford had experienced. Any chance Ford had of drawing breath choked out as Bill's claws crushed his windpipe, any chance of crying for help dashed as his vocal chords literally splintered and stuck in what was left of the fleshy bits of his throat.

A few seconds more, and _that_ was taken too.

Ford’s last coherent thought was the dawning horror of what he had become; his body was little more than a twisted pine trunk, gnarled branches, and peeling, bleeding bark from where his injuries hadn't quite made the transition.

Then, there was nothing _._

[The dryad collapsed the moment Bill left its body.

“We had… a _deal_ , Cipher!” The dryad heaved, crawling towards the demon.

“Oh, yeah, about that? I _lied!_ S’kinda my _thing_?” Bill smirked (if you could call it that). “Now, if you’ll _excuse me_ , I have an _Armageddon_ to start!”]

 

 

Ford was nothing, and there was nothing surrounding him.

If Ford could feel (which, he couldn’t), if he was aware (which, he wasn’t), he would have _laughed_ at the irony.

This was precisely what he’d wanted. For _ages_. Ever since he was a scared and monstrous little boy in a scary and monstrous little city, hiding from bullies in the library and daydreaming about falling through the triangle shaped hole in the map, never to be seen again.

Ford was nothing, and there was nothing surrounding Ford.

       had learned the hard way that it didn't matter who was controlling the body. As far as anyone else was concerned, Ford and Bill were one and the same. It was enough, at first, to let Bill have the reigns while        retreated into obscurity. When it started,        would observe, a passive spectre looming over the body. It became a habit, and Bill would come and go whenever it became too much, regardless of whether       wanted Bill to. Then again, strange injuries were a small price to pay for a break without a decrease in productivity.

Soon,        stopped observing altogether, and became nothing during Bill’s visits. Pushed        down until no trace was left.

And now         was nothing, and there was nothing surrounding        .

_It_ was nothing.

 

It _is_ nothing.

 

It survives. It photosynthesizes and grows and it drinks through the roots and the xylem carries the water to the leaves. It breathes through the stoma and the chloroplasts send food to the roots through the pholem, and it is _nothing_ and it is _everything_ and it is _only_ and it _is_ and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is.

And

It grows its roots through the rocks beneath the soil, it’s too quick and the roots wither and the new roots grow in their place and it _continues_ even though it’s not supposed to. Its branches grow and grow and grow and grow too heavy and break off from the weight. At least there is more food for the roots.

It is spreading. Its roots breach the rocks and fumble through air, and the air burns and the roots die, but they turn around and sprout back into the soil. They climb down, clinging to walls and avoiding the air until necessary, until they hit something cold and hard that the roots cannot break easily.

Surely, this is its own doing?

It is solitary, what could possibly be the cause if not itself?

It is nothing, and everything, and yet it

**_W̡̥͉̬͍̓̄̄̍ͧ̚ȃ̫̘̮n̠͉̠̹̦̯̫͠t̠̩͔̼̱͙͉͑ͯ̓s̯̠̬̘͍͎͍̐͒͒ͮ_ **

It wants terrible things beyond its own comprehension, and it is filled with blood and sinew and stone and burnt hair and **_chaos_** and what **_fun_** it all seems and it’s almost aware enough to recognize the fog it’s in, it’s so _close_ to realizing what’s happening.

But there is no revelation of ‘another,’ it is not given the satisfaction nor the horror of knowing its thoughts are not its own, of knowing that it is dissolving, and it never knows what happens when a demon makes a deal with something that’s alive but has no mind or soul.

It is _Bill_.

It is Bill and Bill is so fucking _close_ to pressing that button, to freedom, and really, why didn’t he think to take such direct control of his pawns _eons_ ago? Interdimensional chess is fun but cheating is _faster_. The roots are curling around the controls, Bill is constantly growing new ones when the old ones die, and he’s so _close_ , so damn _close_.

And then it is uprooted.

The roots break off as the trunk is lifted from the soil and there is no point in photosynthesizing anymore and       can’t move, not yet, but Ford knew, somehow, Bill had been driven back.

Then the flesh grew back, bones piecing themselves together and organs unsticking themselves from bark. Ford’s eyes grew back slowly, and he had to shut them _quick_ because the light _burned_  after being without sight for so long.

His eyes were bleeding. If he moved his head the wrong way, he was certain they’d come out of their sockets.

_How long has it been? How long was I under?_

Ford curled on his side, covering his face as he was lifted further off the ground. _Something_ wrapped around his body, and he couldn’t yet see what it was, but he knew it was some sort of plant, and it was coming from him, and he would have thrown up at the revelation that he wasn’t human, not completely, if it hadn’t been for his empty stomach.

He stopped moving, and slowly, blinking to adjust back to _seeing_ , turned to face whatever had saved him. The blood trailing down his face was sticky, like tree sap, and it wouldn’t coagulate as quickly as it had before. His voice was hoarse and scratchy when he finally found it.

“S— Steve?”

Ford had been saved— somehow— by the reclusive tree giant that had frequented his house since his arrival in Gravity Falls all those years ago, the very being he could never quite get close to without getting a deer thrown at him.

_But **why**?_

“What happened?” Ford whispered, his voice barely audible above the fire in his throat.

Steve cupped Ford in his hands, keeping the (comparatively) tiny man still as he sat down in the clearing, his face finally coming into view. It looked nice enough, at least by dryad standards. One eye was much larger than the other, though the tree giant actually _had_ eyes, rather than empty sockets. Much of his face was covered in brush and moss and leaves, the rest was gnarled and peeling bark that formed a large nose and sharpened teeth that splintered out from his mouth as he spoke. “ _The demon Bill Cipher made a deal with one of the Dryads,_ ” he said, in low tones incomprehensible to humans, in a tongue that Ford now understood perfectly.

Ford moved to reply, but it hurt too much to speak, and the moss and mushrooms on Steve’s hand were so _comfortable_. Despite the cold air, Steve’s body was giving off such _warmth_ , like a greenhouse. If he’d dared to look over the edge of Steve’s hand, Ford would have found squirrels and birds and creatures of all kinds taking shelter from the cold in and around the tree giant’s branches.

Steve continued.

“ _They tried to save themselves from freezing to death. The demon had other plans._ ” Steve used a lichen covered finger to prop Ford up as he tried (and failed) to stand. Ford leaned into it, gripping the bark with one arm as he tried to wipe the blood from his face. “ _His plan, from what I can tell, was to use Our magic to transform you. I do not know what, exactly, he was trying to accomplish. When I plucked you from the Earth, your branches were dying and your roots were too long for one so fresh.”_

“... _The— the portal,”_ Ford sputtered out in the alien tongue, not bothering to try to understand how he could suddenly speak tree-spirit. It came surprisingly smooth to his aching windpipe, like sweet water on a hot day. It was easier than trying to speak English, at least. He didn’t need his throat to talk to Steve. He just… knew. “ _H-he was trying to get to the portal_.” Ford gave up on trying to clean his face, he’d simply have to hope there was some vegetable oil still left in the house later. _Wait—_ Ford bolted upright, before nearly falling again and digging his fingers into Steve’s bark. “ _Wait, **tra— transform**? Into… into what?”_

He knew the answer already.

The vines snaking around his body told him that much, not to mention the leaves growing from his skin.

“ _You were transformed into one of the tree-trapped for nearly two days before I arrived,”_ Steve said. _“This is as close to humanity as I can bring you. Our magic was only meant to go one way._ ”

Ford stood stock still and silent.

“ _Hey, it could be worse,_ ” Steve shrugged, nearly causing Ford to topple over. _“You could be dead._ ”

Ford trembled, his mind going numb, though it was a small comfort to be aware, on some level, that it wasn’t the kind of numbness that came before Bill appeared.

_It **was** worse than that. I was **him**._

Ford brought a hand to his throat, rubbing at the sore skin.

Steve looked at the creature in his hands, no longer human but not a dryad, either. He wasn’t sure exactly _what_ his magic had done, other than yank the man’s soul back from the aether and give him a body that at least _sort of_ resembled the one he had before. “ _No one double-crosses a dryad in my forest. I will remain here to help guard your home,”_ Steve said. “ _...There is a blizzard coming soon. It won’t be long now. You should get inside._ ”

Ford nodded, slowly, Steve’s words barely registering. “ _...Thank you, I will._ ”

Steve gently lowered his hand until it was level with Ford’s front porch, pausing to let him get on his feet and making sure he made it inside okay. “ _Do your best to keep warm, have plenty of water nearby. Some topsoil couldn’t hurt. Good luck, Fennelore.”_

Ford stopped, one hand on the doorknob. “ _Fennelore?”_

Steve shrugged. “ _You really act like a Fennelore._ ”

Ford nodded. “ _Whatever you say, Steve_.”

Ford locked the door the second he made it inside, peering out the window just in time to see Steve fall back behind the trees but not going deeper into the forest, blending right in. Dark clouds piled in the sky as the wind began to pick up.

 _So much for getting supplies_.

He looked down at his body, at human skin mixed with thorned vines and leaves and sap mixed with blood, and sank to the ground. Ford inhaled and smelled compost and freshly cut grass. _Fuck, I hope that’s just temporary_. He could feel the vines taking root in his skin, in the ground, he could feel  _bark_ underneath his skin, he coul hear it creaking with every breath. There was no denying it. He was some sort of plant monster. The exact line between "human" and "dryad" was somewhere far beyond Ford's concerns at the moment, but he wasn't  _human_ anymore.

And even worse than that?

 _Two days_.

_I was him, he was me, for two **days**._

_He took my mind. He took my mind and my body and he **soiled it** , he desecrated my mind and..._

_And..._

_I was his tool to be used and thrown away._

_I'm a monster._

_It’s my own fault._

_I let him in._

Ford learned quickly that his tears weren’t salty anymore, but sickly sweet. Like sugar water.

Hours passed. The blizzard rolled in.

The vines grew.


	3. Physalia, Physalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford gets a new visitor. This goes surprisingly better than you'd expect. You know, comparatively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blood, violence, panic attacks. Some mentions of surgery, so if surgery ooks you out be warned (it ooks me out too, it's literally just mentioning that Stan's had top surgery). Oh! Also, Stan is dyslexic, but doesn't know it (yet) due to a variety of factors. As such, Stan might say some things about himself that could be interpreted as... negative. I would like to hope that I wrote those passages clearly enough that the fact that these are Stan's thoughts and Stan's alone gets across, but just in case I want to cover my bases: I don't share those views.

Stanley Pines trudged through the snow, keeping his head down in an attempt to not get frostbite on his face. The blizzard hadn’t started _too_ long before he got into town, but the snow was already thick enough to impair his vision, and driving down the winding forest road leading to Ford’s address had proven… _difficult_.

Okay, so he’d gone off-road and the Stanley Mobile was stuck on ice. That wasn’t the issue here.

The issue was that Ford’s mysterious postcard had failed to mention how fucking _cold_ Oregon was this time of year, and snow was piling on Stan’s shoulders _fast_.

Stan breathed into his mittens, rubbing his hands together to try and keep them warm. _God I hope Ford’s still got power_.

Finally, after what seemed like hours walking through the blinding snow, Stan reached a log cabin, rising up out of the snow like an old god, clawing its way to the surface and warning the weak-willed humans of the Earth to turn back.

 _Sweet Moses_. _Ford lives **here**?_

The yard was littered with barbed wire, satellite dishes, ‘keep out’ signs, and 55 gallon drums Stan could _swear_ were marked as containing nuclear waste. But that wasn’t what caught Stan’s attention.

Shifting the weight of his duffel, Stan bolted to the front porch, wide-eyed and heart pounding.

He tripped over something in the yard, a sinkhole maybe, possibly a snapped branch that had fallen not too far from the porch, but he never took his eyes off the house.

 _Briar. The whole damn thing’s covered in **briar**!_ Stan almost pulled at one of the frozen plants taking root in the cabin walls, but thought better of it once he saw the thorns poking through the ice.

“Fucking hell, no one’s lived here for years!” Stan screamed, kicking the place where he thought a door would be beneath the vines.

Stan shivered.

 _Maybe I just got the house next door. Maybe this is 617 Gopher Road._ He grabbed a switchblade out of his jacket pocket and started sawing at the briar, managing to at least get the house number uncovered after only a few minutes.

The house was number 618.

The briar grew back the second Stan stopped cutting long enough to let it.

Stan’s heart dropped.

 _“STANFORD!_ ” He screamed, his voice lost to the uncaring blizzard, hoping for a response but getting nothing, as usual. He needed something stronger than a switchblade.

He needed an ax.

Dashing to the side of the house, Stan dug in the spot where he’d seen a conspicuous rectangular lump of snow forming on his way in, praying to anything that would listen that it was firewood, and promptly yelling “ _Suck it!_ ” when he found a rusty hatchet stuck in the wood pile. He didn’t waste time trying to get back to the porch, he just started swinging at a small depression in the cabin walls that he hoped was a window.

The frozen, browned briar shuddered as Stan struck it, bits of ice cascading away as he did so, and he could swear it was _bleeding_ but that wasn’t right… right? Plants don’t _bleed_.

Stan raised the ax, hesitating for just a second and instantly regretting it.

He felt himself being pulled back by the hood of his jacket and _lifted into the freezing air_. He swung the ax wildly, hoping to get a hit before he was too high off the ground, but then a large hand wrapped around him and _holy fuck holy fuck what the hell oh my god._ Stan dropped the ax, his mitten-clad hands gaining no purchase on the bark and moss covering the hand, and Stan felt strangely warm in its clutches, despite the well-below-freezing air around him, but _fuck what the fucking hell is this thing?! How high up are we? Oh sweet Moses, I’m gonna be sick!_

The creature spun Stan around and stared at him with two misshapen eyes, one larger than the other, and it _roared_.

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, flinching at the sight of the thing’s _teeth_ , and while he would have _liked_ to say he screamed at it, would have _liked_ to say he fought back, he promptly leaned over the thing’s hand and vomited into the moss.

The creature rolled its eyes and tossed Stan into its other hand, wiping the soiled one in the snow with a low grunt.

Stan coughed and sputtered, spots dancing at the edge of his vision as he _slammed_ into the beast’s other hand. He tried to prop himself up, to face the beast, but his arms trembled as he weighed his options and tried to work out how to escape.

“ _Steve!_ ”

Stan heard a low, incomprehensible tone that sounded like it could have come from the creature that had him in its clutches, but as Stan peered blearily through the frost and the snow, he could see a figure on the porch.

“Ford! Ford, run!” Stan screamed, adrenaline _finally_ pumping through his bruised body and giving him the strength to fight back, even as he felt dizzy just _thinking_ about how high up he was.

Ford, however, did _not_ run. He walked right up to the giant and kept speaking in the foreign tongue.

“ _Steve, I think that’s my brother you have there. I sent for him a few days before…”_ Ford paused, clasping his hands behind his back. _“Before. I— Please, at least let me check to make sure it’s him?”_

“ _You didn’t tell me he was coming,”_ the giant rumbled, raising an eyebrow.

“ _...I didn’t think he **was** coming,” _ Ford hung his head, sparing a quick glance in Stan’s direction. _“Please, at least let me check and make sure he isn’t—”_ Ford faltered, craning his head back to look the beast in the eyes. _“Help me clear both your names and let him go.”_

The beast nodded, gently setting Stan down in the snow and kneeling until ( _He? She? Do tree monsters have genders? Eh, I’ll ask later_ ) they were as close to eye level with Ford as they were going to get.

Stan took a breath, but before he could say anything, Ford spun him around and shined a flashlight _directly_ in his _eyes_.

“Hey!” Stan shouted, pushing Ford away and rubbing the spots out of his eyes. “What is this?!”

Ford’s voice came out trampled against the blizzard, barely making it past his lips and losing to the wind long before it reached Stan’s ears. His face seemed to cave in on itself for a moment, before quickly turning to the tree monster.

 _“It’s okay, it’s him… Thank you, Steve,”_ he said, taking Stan by the arm and pushing him towards the door.

The tree giant nodded, slowly standing up and walking back into the forest.

Stan’s knees felt how that thing’s legs looked: stiff and wooden. Now that he was closer, now that the snow-filled air wasn’t obstructing his view of Ford, the only thing he could focus on was the curdling feeling in his gut.

“S-sorry.” Ford’s voice was scratchy and raw, like it had spent weeks clawing its way out of his throat. “I had to make sure you weren’t—” Ford stopped, glancing around the clearing. “You weren’t followed, were you? By anyone? Anyone at all?”

Stan shook his head.

He was going to be sick.

Dark purple-almost-black bruises flourished on Ford’s neck, painting a picture that Stan never thought he’d see on his twin. He smelled like shit and mowed grass, his coat was tattered and too filthy for someone with a house and a washing machine, even accounting for the blizzard, his face was scratched to hell and his hands were wrapped in so much gauze he looked like a mummy.

But that’s not what was making Stan feel like dropping down into the snow and waiting for frostbite to set in.

Ford’s house was completely free of briar now.

Ford’s _body_ , however, was _not_. Thorny vines grew out from underneath his _skin_ , wrapping around his body, looking a little worse for wear but claiming him as their own. And they were bleeding.

 _He_ was bleeding.

“Ford—”

“You look different,” Ford said. The second they were inside the house, Ford snapped about fifteen locks shut.

Stan stopped. “Yeah, so do you.” And he wasn’t just talking about Ford’s mutation. Stan had sacrificed more than he’d cared to admit for top surgery, but _Ford_ , Ford was deep-voiced without the cigarettes and Stan could clearly see a five o’clock shadow on his chin. Ford had snagged some _hormones._ “But that’s not the issue here, Ford, for the love of god! You’re— you’re _bleeding_.” Stan dragged a hand down his face. “We can sort out our gender shit after—”

“Stan, it’s okay,” Ford said, lifting his arm slightly to show Stan the wound, a deep slit on his side from where Stan had unknowingly hacked at… well, hacked at his brother’s vines with an ax. He could see bark poking out from underneath Ford’s skin, and his blood was thick and sticky, not gushing out the wound like it should be. His brother heaved, panting and pale faced and looking like a stiff breeze would topple him.

_There’s no way to get him to a hospital. Not in this weather._

_Even if there was, for fuck’s sake who’s gonna treat him?_

_This is it._

“Ford, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I would _never_ —” Stan started, watery eyed and gasping for air, but then the wound closed, sprouting a cluster of bright green baby vines, far healthier than the ones Stan had hacked away. Ford stumbled forward, but caught himself, the color slowly returning to his cheeks.

“Figured out how to do that a few days ago.” Ford shrugged. “It’s okay, Stan. You didn’t know. How could you have even _guessed_?”

Stan didn’t know whether to collapse from relief or smack his brother.

_Only you, Ford. Only **you** would hold a ten year grudge over a busted science project, but **immediately shrug off** a fucking **ax wound**._

Stan sighed, wiping his eye before Ford could notice the unshed tears. “Okay, Ford...What’s going on? Why are you a plant monster?” He followed Ford through his cluttered house, piled high with things in jars and fossils and papers and half formed machines. Every breath he took he felt like he was going to choke on dust (or maybe mold). Red-brown sticky splotches stained the floor, starting near the stairs, and leading out the front door.

He kept his eyes off the floorboards after seeing that.

“I— I’ve made huge mistakes, I don’t know who I can trust anymore. And now _this—_ ” Ford gestured to himself. “It’s too late. I’m out of time. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

“Hey. Easy there, we can talk this through,” Stan said, reaching out to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, but hesitating when he remembered the thorns. “Look, Ford, I’ve been all around the world. Whatever this is, whatever caused this,” Stan settled for a clear patch on Ford’s arm. “I’ll _understand_.”

Ford took a step back, and the vines grew thicker around his body. “It’s too dangerous to proceed with my original plan. You need to leave here as soon as you’re able—”

“Ha ha. Not happening.” Stan glowered at him. “You think I haven’t seen shit like this before?”

Ford shot him a look.

“Okay, maybe not this _exact_ thing, but I’ve got the gist. Someone’s got a hit on you.” Stan gestured to the bruises on Ford’s neck. “And you need help getting underground or beating the bastards back cause there’s no one around to deal with the problem for good. I’ve _been_ there. Let me help.”

“...Fine. You want to help? Take this,” Ford said, pulling a tattered journal from his coat pocket and thrusting it into Stan’s hands. His eyebrows were knit with frustration, but Stan couldn’t bring himself to take Ford’s anger too seriously.

_Hell, if I’d been almost strangled to death and turned into a plant monster, I’d be snippy, too._

“I can’t tell you what I was researching,” Ford continued. “And I don’t trust myself to go down and show you. Just— Remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?”

Stan raised his eyebrows, taken aback, and a small smile ghosted across his face, unbidden. That… wasn’t where he was expecting this to go. It wasn’t a bad idea, all things considered. They’d have to get their ducks in a row first, snag some passports, assume a new identity, gather funds, but leaving the country _might_ shake whoever was after Ford off his trail.

_And you’ll get your brother back._

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! Take it to the edge of the Earth, bury it where no one can find it!” Ford continued.

And there it was.

Stan felt his heart shatter all over again, just like that night twelve years ago, replaying every nasty thought he’d had about himself and every horrible thing he’d done. _Why would he want to go anywhere with you? These guys want Ford for his brains, you’ve only ever gotten in this kinda trouble because you screwed the wrong sucker._

Stan couldn’t decide whether to punch his brother or smack him with his stupid science book.

He stared at the sticky-wet blood still staining Ford’s side. At the bruises and the cuts and the bandages hiding who knows what else.

He decided on neither.

“Okay, one: fuck you.” Stan gave Ford a withering stare. “Two: that is _not_ happening.”

“I tried to tell you it was too dangerous,” Ford mumbled, looking away and glaring at something in the middle distance.

“Damnit, Ford, that’s not the _problem!_ ” Stan shouted. “You _finally_ want to talk to me after all these years, I come all this fucking way, get attacked by some kinda tree monster—”

“Steve.”

“Oh, well _excuse me._ I get attacked by _Steve_ , find you mutated into a plant monster and driving yourself crazy trying to protect yourself from someone or some _thing_ that tried to fucking _strangle you_ — I offer to help! _Like you called me here to do, by the way,_ and _you_ tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!”

“You don’t understand what I’m up against, what I’ve been through!” Ford wasn’t quite shouting, just speaking was enough to set his throat on fire, but he could ignore _that_. If he shouted he might damage his windpipe further and die mid-argument.

“No, _you_ don’t understand what _I’ve_ been through! I’ve been to jail in _three_ different countries! I once chewed my way out of _the trunk of a car!_ I’ve got a _mullet_ , Stanford! I don’t know what’s going on, but I know enough to _help!_ And you won’t _let_ me because of some stupid _grudge_!” Stan’s fists curled, ready to punch at a moment’s notice even though he _knew_ if he took a swing, Ford was weak enough to go down in one hit.

More than anything, he wanted to set the journal in his hands on _fire_.

But plants and fire don’t mix.

And he wasn’t going to risk setting Ford aflame if he tried to grab the book.

Which Ford was just reckless (or stupid) enough to do.

Stan’s face scrunched up in a way that made Ford’s heart crumple, in that way that people make just before they’re about to cry, when they barely catch themselves before all their walls come crashing down. “Just— _Why_ do you _hate me_ so much?”

At that, Ford paused, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t hate you! I _never_ hated you! I just didn’t want to spend the rest of my life—”

“Stuck in Jersey? Cause I was set to scrape _barnacles_ for the rest of my life?” Stan threw his arms up. “No one ever thought I was good for anything, I just never pegged you for the type to _agree_ with them until you shut the curtains on me!”

“I didn’t want to be your _pawn_!” Ford straightened up, forcing any sympathy down and finally, after ten years, speaking his mind. “I wanted to be my own person, not just an extension of _you_. I never hated you. I just got smart enough to realize you were only using me.”

The journal fell to the floor with a _crash._ Stan stood stock still as his face blanched. His trembling hands uncurled at his sides, he could no longer focus long enough to keep his grip.

 _All you ever do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother’s coattails_.

“You didn’t care about me,” Ford continued. “You didn’t want me to go out and become my own person. You just wanted me to do whatever _you_ wanted. And you did anything to get me to do that. _You_ sabotaged my chance to make something of myself, and for what? Because you wanted a free ride and nothing else.”

“For fuck’s sake, Ford. Is that what you thought?” Stan’s voice wavered as he spoke. “I didn’t care about the stupid school, _I didn’t want to lose my brother **forever**_. You think I didn’t notice you getting all weird and distant before the science fair? You think I didn’t _realize_ that after you left, you weren’t coming back? I never _meant_ to break your project, I swear. And hidin’ it from you? I was a stupid kid who’d made a mistake and didn’t want to get caught. It was workin’ when I left so I thought I’d fixed it. I wasn’t trying to— to force you into doing anything.” Stan sighed. “You could’a done anything with your life, and I’m sorry I made ya feel like you couldn’t. I just… wanted to be a part of it.”

Ford stared at Stan, his mind screaming at him, _there’s no way Stan isn’t lying_. _Trust no one._

_Set it all on fire— better yet, choke the house with weeds again!_

_No._

“I didn’t want to go treasure hunting. I wanted to go treasure hunting _with you_ ,” Stan said.

_If you can’t trust your twin, who can you trust?_

Ford slid down to the ground, on his knees. “How did things get so messed up between us?” The briar took root in the floorboards, slowly spreading across the hardwood.

Stan shrugged. “Well… we’ve got time. The blizzard’s not gonna let up anytime soon,” Stan said, gesturing towards a boarded up window. “Doubt anyone’s gonna try anything until it clears.” He sat down next to his brother, using his jacket to protect himself from the thorns.

“You wanna just… talk about our shit?”

*****

“Okay,” Stan said, _finally_ digging a notepad out of the piles of trash and papers that carpeted Ford’s living room that wasn’t torn to shreds and full of uncharacteristically scribbled cursive and ominous doodles. “First rule of fake-therapy, you shouldn’t be speaking. Write that shit down, your throat’s gotta be killing ya,” he said, thrusting the notebook and a pen into Ford’s hands.

Ford stared at the notepad for a second. “ _2nd rule,_ ” Ford wrote, his lips pressed into a tight line. “ _Don’t use this as an excuse not to listen to me.”_

“You got it,” Stan said, taking a seat on the floor next to Ford. “So, um…”

Ford was already scribbling in the notepad.

“ _Why were you really cheating off me in high school?”_

“Come on, you know it’s ‘cause I’m an idiot! I’d never have passed _anything_ if I hadn’t, and even then my grades were _still_ shit.” Stan scowled as Ford wrote his reply, hunched over the notepad and underlining what he wrote several times before letting Stan see it.

“ _No, you’re not. I know you’re not. You’re a knucklehead, that’s not the same thing. You built a damn boat with me. You could have done so much more if you’d just applied yourself!_ ”

“I could never concentrate long enough to fucking ‘apply myself’!” Stan shouted, tugging at his hair. “School’s not exactly _easy_ when you’re not a damn _genius_.”

He kept silent about the way letters swam and wobbled in his vision, how they all looked the same unless it was Ford’s script on the page, how (though his own cursive left too much to be desired to appease his teachers) rivers never quite ran through cursive the same way they did through print.

How, when Ford had stopped letting Stan look over his notes after class in an attempt to get him to write his own, his grades took a nosedive and never recovered. How agonizing it was whenever summer reading assignments came around or when a teacher required an essay to be written on a typewriter.

 _That_ , he’d never admit, even to himself.

Stan sighed, fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. “...Everyone always said I could do _so much fucking more_ if I only _tried_ but you want to know the truth? The truth is even when I try as hard as I possibly can, I _still fail!”_ Stan said. “So what’s the point?” Stan picked at the dry skin around his thumbnail, hoping Ford wouldn’t try to dig deeper than that.

Ford shrunk back a bit, pen hovering just above the notepad, at a loss.

“So…” Stan pulled away, scratching the back of his head. “Is that why you stopped wanting me around? ‘Cause I was cheating?”

“ _I didn’t,_ ” Ford started to write, but scribbled over it. “ _I never wanted to stop being your brother. But you were always lying and cheating and I didn’t know why. It wound up being one misunderstanding after another, and I didn’t know they were misunderstandings at the time._” Ford chewed at his lip, choosing his next words carefully. “ _I could never talk to anybody. I could never trust anybody long enough to keep up a decent friendship, assuming they even wanted to talk to the freakiest kid in school._” Stan would certainly understand, he’d been there while it was happening, he **had** to have known how ostracized Ford was, but he felt he was walking on eggshells all the same. “ _I just thought since no one else liked me, then you didn’t, either. And then the science fair thing happened._ ” There. That was enough, right? Just enough information to give Stan an idea of what happened, but not enough to get him asking the bigger questions, the questions he couldn’t answer right away.

“Why didn’t you do more to stop dad? Or do _anything_ to stop dad, for that matter? Why didn’t you try to _find me_ if you cared so damn much?” Stan asked. His hand gripped at his threadbare jeans, knuckles white.

_Or not._

“ _There were… multiple reasons…_ ” Ford wrote. “ _One being that I was scared of our father. And I was angry at you for a time. When I finally got settled in college, I threw myself into schoolwork and too many other things were happening for me to try to track you down, even if I wanted to. And I’m sorry for not wanting to.”_

Okay. _Ouch_. Stan clenched his fist, tears prickling in his eyes.

“ _But I want to be better. And I don’t want things to stay the way they are between us._ ”

“Why now?” Stan spat, looking away. “If I’d really done all the shit you’d thought I did, you wouldn’t be talkin’ about wanting to make things right.”

“Is—” The word flew from Ford’s mouth in a whisper, guttural and raspy. He tugged on Stan’s jacket, brows furrowing, and only continued when he was looking at the notepad. “ _Is wanting to protect myself from getting hurt that bad?_”

“What?!”

“ _If you’d really done all those things, if I hadn’t been wrong…  I worked so hard and I thought you’d undone it all just to feed your own goals!”_ Ford paused, flipping over a new page. _“Stan,_ _I'm automatically at a disadvantage because of my deformity! You have options. I don't. If I'm not PERFECT then I'm just a FREAK._” Ford stared Stan directly in the eyes, squaring his shoulders, puffing out his chest.

Stan grabbed the notebook out of Ford’s hands, squinting at the looping cursive, incredulous. “ _You're_ at a disadvantage?” He screamed. “I'm fucking homeless!” Stan tossed the notebook back at Ford, hitting him square in the chest.

Ford deflated instantly.

_Stupid, stupid, **stupid.**_

“ _You were homeless,_ ” Ford wrote, slowly picking the notebook out of his vines. He looked Stanley over, at the tattered and stained jacket, his greasy, tangled hair. “ _Are homeless. Why didn’t you call me?”_

Stan paused, scratching the back of his neck. “I tried, couple’a times. Just… never got the courage to actually say anything.”

Ford furrowed his brow, frowning. “ _I always thought that was the communists.”_

“Heh. I always thought you’d laugh in my face. Or actually help. Didn’t know which was worse.” Stan shrugged.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Ford wrote. “ _I’m so so sorry._ ”

“Are we gonna be okay?” Stan asked.

“ _Do you mean okay in a general sense, or do you mean okay as more of an interpersonal concept?”_

“Second one.”

Ford was still, staring at a spot in the floorboards as the vines crept over his body. Then, like a statue coming to life, he began to write.

“ _I don’t think it’s wise. What’s after me could easily come after you, too. But… I want to. I so desperately want to._ ”

Stan reached out slowly, not wanting to hurt himself, but he managed to lock arms with Ford. “We can make it work.”

Ford nodded, leaning into Stan’s shoulder and gripping his other arm in as close to a hug as the two could manage without injury. His breath hitched, his throat screamed and constricted, and the smell of sugar water joined the lukewarm-coffee-and-exceptionally-greasy-fast-food scent on Stan’s jacket. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so so sorry.”

“Hey, hey, none of that, your throat can’t take it,” Stan said, pulling Ford up and digging through his pockets for a napkin. A few tears slipped down his own face. “I forgive you, I’m just glad you still want me around.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Ford croaked. “It’s fine, please stop worrying ab-about me. It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is, it really is,” Stan said. “And… I’m sorry, too.”

“I don't want you to _leave_ , please don’t leave…” Ford was desperate for a gentle touch, for a spot of safety, but it never came, it _couldn't_ come, not when he knew if he leaned any further into Stan’s embrace he'd just hurt his brother.

“Oh, I'm not goin’ anywhere. Not when you're dealing with this James Bond shit,” Stan said, looking his brother in the eyes. "Speaking of which, you might want to give me some details about that? Like. Who's after you, wh— Ford?”

Ford pushed away, stumbling backwards, his chest heaving. “Don’t—” he sputtered, words failing him like a dead car battery.

 Stan felt his heart twist up inside his chest as he watched the vines scrape across his brother’s blanched, clammy skin. Ford tore one hand free and clamped it over his mouth, his eyes screwed shut.

_Okay, bad idea. ~~~~_

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stan said. “It’s okay, you— we can put that off some more.” Stan gave Ford a sympathetic smile. “But… you’ve gotta tell me what happened eventually.”

Ford’s response was immediate. “ _No,_ Stan. I was serious when I said it was too dangerous for you to get involved.”

“And I was serious when I said I wasn’t leaving you here alone,” Stan said. “Come on, you can tell me. Even if it’s not everything, even if it’s just things like how many usually come and when.”

Ford hesitated.

Then:

“Okay _._ ”


End file.
